A Nice Night For Introspection
by ianxfalcon
Summary: Weather Wizard finds himself, much to his annoyance, watching over a detoxing Mirror Master.


This story takes place somewhere around _Identity Crisis._ Timeline might be just a little screwed. Warnings for mentions of drug use (duh) and attempts to write Glaswegian.

The characters belong to DC. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

He hadn't signed up for this.

The Rogues were only supposed to work together. Rob a bank or two. Combine their forces against the Flash, and after that, depending on how it went, either get drunk together or spend the night alone in different jail cells. That was it. That was all it was supposed to be, and had been once. In simpler times.

At least that was what Mark always tried to tell himself. The world was different, but he didn't know exactly when that had changed, or whether it was actually the world or themselves that had changed.

Anyway, this was not what he had signed up for. Robbing banks, yes. Getting drunk, well, yes. Wearing colourful costumes and getting punched in the face, unfortunately, yes. But he had not signed up to spend the night babysitting a man who was old enough to know better. And yet, here he was, failing to read _Tom Sawyer_ as he was watching the Mirror Master trying to claw his way through the living room wall in an anxious, nerve-wrecking frenzy. Mark couldn't look away, not even for the undying wisdom of his-namesake Twain.

He had _actually_ planned to spend the night in a bar, possibly getting laid afterwards if he was lucky, which he usually was in that department. But like the best laid plans of mice and men, it was not to be. McCulloch had shown up inside his shaving mirror, unannounced and most certainly uninvited, and the night had taken a turn for the bad. Mark was about to start lecturing McCulloch on this amazing American thing called privacy when McCulloch had done something Mark had never heard him do before: he had asked for help. Begged for it, almost, in a voice cracking with desperation. He looked even crazier than usual, a complete mess: pale, hair sticking in sweaty stripes on his forehead, eyes unfocused and bloodshot. He still had a fading black eye and a broken nose from last week, when Cold had found him snorting coke in the bathroom. None of them had seen him since, but now he was here, halfway to shitfaced and panicking because it didn't _help._

Mark decided to let him in. Of course, with the Mirror Master, it was never a matter of _letting_ him in anywhere, but Mark was touched – not that he'd admit it – that the man had actually asked.

"What do you need?" Mark had asked.

McCulloch mumbled something about things being "goon" and then something about mirrors that dissolved into incomprehensible Scottish gibberish. Mark usually didn't have any trouble understanding him, not even when he felt like messing with people he was talking to and throw in random Scottish words that might not be actual words. It seemed to amuse him; McCulloch was a strange man with a strange sense of humor. But now, with his slurry drunkenness and only partly-healed nose, it was damn near impossible to catch a single word, and for once he seemed really desperate for someone to listen to what he was trying to say.

Mark eventually managed to puzzle out that he was talking about withdrawal and that he needed "soomthing, anything" that would quench the frantic need. Mark gave him a beer. It might not be the best solution, but he had never had the incentive to learn how to deal with half-crazy, detoxing Scotsmen. McCulloch drained the beer like a man dying of thirst, but it wasn't enough, and now he was apparently on his merry way to cracking completely.

Mark realized, with a sigh of resignation, that he wasn't going anywhere tonight. He kind of liked his apartment and didn't want to leave McCulloch alone in it in his current state. Or in any state, for that matter. Besides, McCulloch was a Rogue. When a Rogue needed help, he got it. That was the deal. The Rogues were family. Most of them, for better or worse, didn't really have anywhere else to turn.

Mark was uncomfortable with that entire concept, but he was willing to admit that he might not be the best judge when it came to family. It was one of these things he didn't want to think about. And when he didn't want to think about something, he didn't. That was how he stayed alive and on top of the game.

Except alive was a parenthesis when you were a Rogue. It hadn't been like that before, but something had changed. Death. He looked at McCulloch, who was walking around in circles, like a caged beast, and mumbling to himself. McCulloch wore a dead man's suit. The first Mirror Master. Dead. Golden Glider, dead. Rainbow Raider, dead. Captain Boomerang at least halfway there, judging by the condition he was in the last time Mark had seen him. The Top a babbling lunatic. Piper, Trickster and Heat Wave off somewhere playing heroes. Things… changed. Maybe it was a matter of adapting or being erased.

Introspection. Another thing that hadn't been there before. When he was McCulloch's age – which really wasn't that long ago – he hadn't stopped to think much. It had been full speed ahead, and sometimes he had ended up facefirst on the ground, and sometimes in jail, but he had just kept on going. Maybe it was a sign of age. He never thought himself as old, and he certainly didn't look his age, but there it was. Like everything else, it sneaked up on you.

 _Ah, well. At least it is a nice night for introspection._ And he didn't have anything to do with the night being the way it was, for once. He sighed and opened another beer.

McCulloch had ceased trying to phase through the wall and had instead pressed his face against a window, and stood there, silent like a foggy day. At least he was still for the moment. If Captain Cold had been here, he would have frozen him solid with his cold gun a long time ago just to make him stop moving. Merely watching the Mirror Master flutter around like a leaf in a whirlwind made Mark almost lose his wits. He wondered why McCulloch had chosen to come to him of all people. Why didn't he go to Cold? Cold was the leader. He was the one who had told the Scotsman to get his act together. And, Mark hated to admit it, Cold would most likely know what to do about this mess. He usually did. For a man with no education, who had probably never even read a book, Len was very effective at what he did. He saw things, understood things. That was why Len was the leader, despite Mark's overall more sophisticated ways.

He was still a massive dick and his so-called "rules" seemed to change on a whim, but as long as he kept the ship running, nobody bothered to question him about it. In Mark's case, he was happy as long as Len didn't punch _him_ in the face for doing something that annoyed him. (But then, Mark was intelligent enough to know when to fold 'em. He preferred to stay above such things, anyway.)

Maybe Cold hadn't been home. For all Mark knew, McCulloch could have been browsing the mirror world for hours, growing more frantic with every passing minute, until he found someone who had allowed him in.

"You want another beer?" Mark asked. Alcohol was probably the last thing McCulloch needed right now, but his silence had become quite creepy and Mark couldn't come up with anything else to say. How come he, a man with his wits about him, couldn't find the right words for this moment?

McCulloch turned around, as if he had forgotten he wasn't alone. When he saw Mark, relief washed over his face.

"Aye," he said in his cracked voice.

Mark threw a bottle in his direction. It hit McCulloch in the face, but he barely reacted. He was deathly pale. A blood vessel had burst in one of his eyes, leaving it with a freakish red glow. Once he saw it, Mark couldn't look away from it. _No drugs,_ he thought. _Not_ once _. Not_ ever _._ He was reminded of that Edgar Allan Poe story, _The Tell-Tale Heart,_ the one with the man and the vulture-like eye that had driven the protagonist to insanity. It was the only Poe he had ever read. He had always intended to read more, but he somehow never got around to it.

Mirror Master picked up his beer and drank it. It was telling of how sick he must feel that he didn't comment on how American beer tasted like piss. He just drank it, and then he sat down on the floor. He put his arms around his legs and started rocking back and forth. Mark suddenly felt queasy.

"How… how are you feeling?" he asked.

"Ever felt like you wanted to die?" McCulloch mumbled.

"No," Mark said guardedly.

"Then you wouldnae understand." He pressed his forehead to his knees. "Fook. I feel a right bugger, know?"

"Maybe you should get some sleep?" Mark suggested hopefully.

"I tried that. Didnae work."

"What can I do?" Mark asked, before even realizing he was asking.

McCulloch lifted his head and stared at him with his blood-filled eye. For a second it seemed to stare right into Mark's soul and Mark came to the conclusion that either he was too drunk for this or he had gone insane.

"Kill me," McCulloch whispered.

Mark flinched, but tried to pretend he hadn't. "Don't be stupid."

"You doon' know what it's like! It hurts! It hurts _so much!_ "

"Well," Mark said, "I believe someone said that pain is what makes us human."

McCulloch kept staring at him, clearly having no clue what Mark was talking about. Well, he wasn't exactly the right person to involve in philosophical debates even when he was sober.

"I just need… soomthing, awright? A fix. Soomthing that can stop it!"

"You can have another beer, but that's all I've got, I'm afraid."

" _I doon' wan' a bloody beer!_ "

"I might have some vodka, as well."

McCulloch considered this as his temper died down. "Aye. That'll do."

Mark rose up and walked over to his liquor cabinet, relieved to have something to do. He found that he did indeed have some vodka and picked out the cheapest bottle – no waste for the wicked – to bring back. If there was nothing else he could do, at least he might drink himself into unconsciousness and then he wouldn't have to deal with this anymore.

He took a few sips and handed the bottle over to McCulloch, who seemed on the verge to start climbing the walls again. McCulloch drank it like it was water, and then he grimaced.

"It doon' work!" he proclaimed and threw the bottle to the floor, where, predictably, it broke. He stared sheepishly at it for a while.

"Work how?" Mark asked, trying without success to hide his irritation. Yes, it was just some cheap shit vodka from the corner grocery store, but he still had had to pay for it and it was worth a better fate than getting sucked up by the floor boards.

McCulloch's answer was another batch of incomprehensible Scottish as he got back to his feet. Back and forth he walked, back and forth. Mark started to seriously consider just hitting him in the head with something hard and then hurdle him off into a mirror. Before he had the time to do that, however, McCulloch folded over like someone had punched him in the guts and threw up all over the floor.

Mark made a sound as he jumped up. " _God_ damn it!"

He didn't know if it was the alcohol or some withdrawal symptom, and he didn't care much either. All he cared about was saving at least some little part of his poor abused floor. He hoisted the shorter man up on his shoulders and dragged him into the bathroom. He got him there just in time for McCulloch to throw up again, in the sink this time. Mark only barely managed to avoid getting anything on himself.

"For fuck's sake, McCulloch," he said.

Mirror Master responded with an "urgh" and stared miserably at his own sick. Mark made another mental note to remember to never let himself sink down in the drug quagmire. His stomach started turning unpleasantly at the smell, and he decided to get out of there as fast as he could. Outside the bathroom, he leaned against the wall, closing his eyes for a second while trying his damn best to ignore the _sounds_ coming from the bathroom.

He would _never_ let himself fall that far. Blowing his brain out with a gun would have the same result, and probably be less messy. And he needed his brain – it was one of his greatest assets. He had worked hard to make it this developed and ahead of its time and wasn't about to just burn it to ashes. He read books and watched debates on philosophy and literature and art. The other Rogues would watch hockey games and they only read newspaper articles about themselves or the Flash. Being with them might not be the best brain exercise, and that was why he needed time alone to stimulate his intellect.

This was not helping with that. He really wished he still had that vodka. He really wished he was alone to absorb the words of Twain, or in a bar accompanied by an intelligent, well-educated and slutty woman.

There was a loud crash from the bathroom, followed by a surprised, muffled moan and a string of curses. Steeling himself, he went back inside. He found McCulloch pressed against the wall, his hand tied to a fist and shaking in the air, dripping blood all over him. The mirror was broken. The fractured glass showed both of them as warped, cracked images through a thin veil of red.

"I HATE YOU!" McCulloch screamed at no one in particular. "I HATE ALL OF YOU!" There seemed to be tears in his bloodshot eyes and Mark wondered dimly if McCulloch had always been insane or if it was a recent development.

"Calm down," he said. "You're going to wake the neighbours."

" _FOOK OFF!_ "

Mark grimaced. "I'm serious. If you don't shut up I'm going to punch you out. I'm sick of this bullshit."

McCulloch glared at him. "You wanna square go, ye wee cunt?"

"Probably not," Mark said. He didn't know what it meant, but he could put two and two together and come to a reasonable conclusion. "I also don't want the cops to show up because some neighbour called them. So, either you shut up or I make you shut up."

It was an empty threat, at least now that his weather wand was in another room. McCulloch may be smaller than him, and thinner than usual for the moment, but he packed a heavy punch and he was apparently really pissed off right now. His hand was bleeding; he actually looked quite deranged, even as pale and sickly as he was right now.

Mark would have asked him why, why anything, but truth be told he didn't need to. He already knew the answer. Reality was a harsh bitch. If he knew how to deal with her, he wouldn't have put on tights and a mask to fight a man who could run with the speed of light in the first place. He would have backed down after his first stint in prison; maybe gotten a family of his own, a normal one, and a boring job in a cubicle or some shit like that. The Rogues and reality simply didn't mix. It was a fact of life. They all had their own way of avoiding it, their own way of escape.

One of the unwritten Rogue rules: if you don't ask me what I'm running from, I won't ask you.

Mirror Master's rage disappeared, as quickly as it first showed up. His head started drooping and Mark took a nervous step backwards, in case he would begin throwing up again.

"Fook," McCulloch told the floor. "I… I think I'm sick."

"I'd say that's a plausible theory," Mark said.

"Every-fooking-thing hurts. Me head, me throat, me… Bloody fooking hell."

"It's a shit business," Mark said agreeably.

"I wish I was dead."

"No, you don't."

McCulloch gave a shaky laughter. "Yer right. I wish someone else was dead. If I thought I could navigate the mirror world an' hold me pistol right now…"

"Are you done throwing up?" Mark asked.

"We'll hafta wait an' see, aye?"

"Because if you aren't, stay away from my living room."

McCulloch measured him with a serious look. Then he shook his head. "Naw."

"What do you mean?"

"Noot even Cold would fook you, even if you put oon a dress."

"What?"

"Aw, fer chrissakes, Mardon. I just called you a girl. You gotta keep up."

"Fuck you."

"Noot without that dress." McCulloch gave him a shit-eating, gap-toothed grin. In his current condition, the result looked downright miserable. "I want it sparkly, aye?"

"You're an asshole."

"Rogue."

McCulloch walked off on unsteady feet. Mark groaned in annoyance before following him. He got his weather wand and returned to the bathroom with it. It was mundane, but he was the goddamn Weather Wizard, after all. He needed to keep his abilities in shape. And if he wanted to create a rain storm inside his own bathroom rather than cleaning it up by hand – he hadn't even touched a broom in years – who would be willing to challenge him on that?

When he was done, he found Mirror Master sleeping in a twitchy way on the living room floor. Mark watched him while debating with himself if he should just take the opportunity to escape, get some fresh air and more alcohol from the local 7-Eleven; get away from all things McCulloch. He eventually decided against it. Leaving the apartment in McCulloch's hands, asleep or not, seemed a really bad idea. And…

 _(I wish I was dead.)_

… and maybe leaving McCulloch alone at all right now was a bad idea.

 _(Kill me.)_

They needed his abilities. Imagine what Cold would do if he found out that Mark had let their key to the cities off himself in some sort of withdrawal-induced insanity. Mirror Masters didn't rain from the sky. It was reasonable to… help him get his shit together so they could go back to terrorizing the Twin Cities like they were supposed to do.

Right. Mirror Masters _didn't_ fall down from the skies. But there had been two of them. He pondered the odds. He didn't know all the details about McCulloch getting a hold of Scudder's gear, except that it involved the feds somehow. Apparently they weren't that picky when it came to hiring mercenaries and giving them advanced tech, and because of that, even more than being feds, they certainly deserved the inevitable double cross.

With the death ratio the Rogues had gotten recently, he suddenly wondered what would happen if he would bite it. It was not the most pleasant thought he had ever had. He tried to think as little about the future as he did the past. The present was where everything was. One day at a time. One storm, one hurricane, one blizzard at a time. One robbery, one burglary…

Would there be other Weather Wizards after him? Or would the legacy be lost forever? He wasn't sure which would be worse. These thoughts about legacies, about futures that may or may not happen – this sudden unwanted birdeye perspective – started eating their way deeper, towards things he didn't want to think about. Memories about family and missed opportunities.

Fuck, now he really wanted to drink himself into a stupor.

In the end, he didn't, simply because he didn't have enough booze left to do so and couldn't just go off to get more. Since he had invited McCulloch in, he felt, well, maybe not exactly responsible but at least somewhat _concerned._ He figured that he might as well stay with him until this whole storm had blown over.

He spent the next thirty-or-so hours regretting that decision. But some time between McCulloch's fifth or sixth panic-I want-to-tear-my-face-off kind of attack and him once again curling up on the floor for an uneasy half hour of dozing off, Mark must have fallen asleep in his armchair.

When he woke up, the apartment was thoroughly trashed. Mark blinked at the sunlight and stretched his neck to get rid of the creaks. Another sign of age? He remembered being troubled about age last night. He grumped. At least he could always comfort himself with knowing that Cold was older than him. And in a much worse shape, too.

He stood up, completely muddled on time and temporary space. It was day; that much was obvious. Check. That was one step in orientating himself. He was in his apartment. Check. He felt hung-over and probably was, but at least not as bad as that time he had woken up on a garbage pram in Hudson River with no recollection of how he got there or how his wand had ended up stuck in his, ahem, hair. He had asked the others, once he finally made it back to Central, but everyone had denied they had anything to do with it.

He shook his head and remembered Mirror Master. McCulloch had done a number on his furniture at some point, but at least he hadn't touched Mark's collection of Twain's complete work, first editions, which was very fortunate for him. The windows were also intact. There was a trail of blood on the floor, and some other ominous dark spots.

McCulloch appeared to be gone. Mark felt a vague sense of worry, which almost drowned out the relief at finally having the apartment to himself. Conflicting emotions, and this early in the day? Granted, he didn't know what time it was. Maybe he should drink something. Oh, right.

He rubbed his eyes and scratched his scraggly chin. Fuck. He needed a shower, he needed to eat something and take a piss, and he needed to find McCulloch before he did anything stupid.

Stupid-er.

The last thing turned out to be easier than he thought. When he opened the door to the bathroom, McCulloch was there, staring like hypnotized at his own reflection in the cracked mirror.

"Feeling better?" Mark asked.

McCulloch jumped and almost fell over, and slowly his eyes in the mirror focused on Mark. They weren't quite as bloodshot now as before, but they still looked wild and raw.

"I doon' know," McCulloch said. "Bloody hell. This was the worst night of my life."

"It's been two nights," Mark said. "I think."

"Fook." McCulloch stared at his own reflection again. Then he said, in a barely audible voice: "Sorry."

Mark didn't know how to respond to that. It was about the vey last thing he would have expected to come out of Mirror Master's mouth.

They stood there in silence for a while.

"Well," Mark said eventually. "It's… you know, okay. Don't worry about it."

More silence.

"Look," Mark said. "I need to take a piss. Would you mind…?"

"Oh. Right. Aye." He moved – reluctantly, it seemed – away from the mirror and went past Mark. He didn't look like he was feeling better. In fact, he still looked like a complete mess.

When Mark had done his business and came back out, McCulloch stood still just outside the door with his eyes shut tight.

"It's… so fooking bright," he groaned. He looked to be in genuine pain. No wonder, given the sheer volume of alcohol he had ingested these last nights. Mark could sympathize.

He picked up his weather wand. Conjuring up a few rain clouds was something he could do in his sleep, almost. It fitted his mood perfectly, anyway. And hopefully it would remind the people down there, who were probably having the time of their lives out in the sun, that he was still around and could ruin their afternoon (or morning, whichever it was) with a flick of his wand. Let them know that Weather Wizard was out there somewhere still. Let them be afraid.

With the sky quickly darkening, McCulloch inclined his head just a little.

"Ta."

"Don't mention it," Mark said, slightly uncomfortable. The rain started hitting the window like small bullets. It worked well to relax him. A bit.

Mirror Master shrugged and went back into the bathroom.

"Where are you going?" Mark said.

"Soomwhere," was the helpful answer.

"Don't do anything stupid," Mark said. "Cold doesn't believe in second chances." Unless he felt like it, maybe. Or was in a good mood, which happened exactly never.

McCulloch stopped and turned halfway around. "'m not gonna do anything… stupid, awright? I've realized soomthing about myself."

"Which is what?"

"That if I have ta choose between… being little Evan in bloody Wonderland, know, or a Rogue… I'd pick a Rogue." He briefly touched the bruise around his eye. "Even if I need a reminder soomtimes."

He gave Mark a slightly uncertain grin and put his hand through the shaving mirror. He hadn't broken this one. A true mercenary; keep in mind to always have one escape route. Even when said mind is in mushy pieces.

"Evan, wait," Mark found himself saying.

"Aye?"

"If you… if you need help again, just call. _Call_ , don't come barging in through a mirror. And I'll… try to help."

McCulloch made a movement that might have been a shrug, a nod or just an involuntary twitch.

"See you in the real world, Weather Wizard, aye?"

Then he stepped completely into the mirror and was gone.

Mark gingerly sat down in his armchair. There was a sombre sense of seriousness in the air that insisted on pressing down on him. The usual hangover depression, or something worse? He didn't know, and he didn't feel like digging too deep into it because there were things there he really didn't want to deal with. Not now, not ever.

Reality. He turned his back on that a long time ago, and he was never going back.

Then he remembered that his apartment looked like a war zone. McCulloch, that fucking bastard. He couldn't even be bothered to clean up his own mess. But maybe that was the source of most of his problems.

Mark decided to ignore the whole thing and go back to sleep.


End file.
